


Virgil's First Rescue

by TenjounoTora



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Entrapment, Gen, Virgil's eyebrow scar, corn silo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenjounoTora/pseuds/TenjounoTora
Summary: Just a small story about how Virgil got his scar/nick next to his eyebrow.





	

It as a late fall day and much too warm than it should have been. The grass was still mostly green, and only a few of the trees were bare. Eleven-year-old Virgil had gathered his art supplies as soon as he had gotten home from school and made his way out into the fields. The wheat had already been harvested for the season, and the fields behind their house looked prickly and bare.

Virgil choose his spot in the middle of the field carefully and laid down the blanket he had brought with him—stomping down some of the stems that were determined to poke him in the butt and sat down, spreading his art supplies out around him. He had brought pretty much everything—well, all but his paints. Not that he didn’t want to, but he only had so much room in his bag and dragging a canvas and easel and the paints was just a bit too much of a pain. He did have his sketch book, pencil, pen, charcoal, pastels, colored pencils, a small set of watercolors, brushes, and even some crayons.

He had tried sketching this scene earlier in the week with just his sketchbook and pencil, but he couldn’t get it to look right. He had even tried to paint it later after he had gotten home, but still he wasn’t getting the colors just right. So he made sure to bring his colors with him this time.

He flipped open his sketchbook and picked up a piece of charcoal, roughly drawing out the outlines for the horizon, fences, trees, and the old silo in the far corner. He used his thumb to smudge some of the black to create some shadow, some depth to the lines before picking up his pencil and adding some detail to it.

It wasn’t supposed to be a perfect picture, just something he could use later to do a proper one on canvas. It wasn’t the lines he was having issues with after all, just the colors. So it only took him about ten to fifteen minutes to sketch out the scene to his liking.

He laid down the charcoal and the pencil, picked up a rag, and wiped his hands off on it before looking at the colors he had brought with him. He frowned and looked back up at the trees. They were at their peak as far as he was concerned, and it wasn’t what a normal person would have considered the peak of fall either. Sometimes the weather and the seasons worked just right together and caused the trees to turn like they were that year. It had happened before, but Virgil could jut barely remember it. The mild weather was causing the trees to turn slower than they usually would have. The tops were bright yellows, reds, and oranges. The colors then slowly changed back to their original varying shades of green at the bottom. The green grass was also littered with bright oranges and yellows, with speckles of red here and there. It wasn’t often all this color existed all at once, then add to it the brightness of the blue sky, he just couldn’t help but want to capture it.

His hands hovered between the pastels and the watercolors—his eyes even darting over to the crayons. The watercolors themselves would be too soft for the colors he saw, he was sure of it. Watercolors were best for the light pinks and yellows of spring, not the bold reds and oranges of fall. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t use the watercolors, just not right at that moment. He picked up the package of pastels and opened it up, displaying the array of colors inside.

He looked up at the scene before him and then shook his head. No, he was wrong. He put the lid on the pastels again and shoved them aside, pulling out the watercolors and a jar of water he had brought as well as a few brushes. He would start with the watercolors, then he could use the pastels to add to it.

He leaned his tablet on his leg so that it was tilted up a little and then added some water to his cobalt blue. He started with the sky, long even strokes of his brush, turning the top of his paper blue. A few drops rolled down the page, but he paid them no mind, he could fix that later. Once the sky was covered he grabbed some paper towels he had brought and dabbed at the sky, creating fluffy clouds in the absence of the blue.

Once he was satisfied with that, he cleaned his brush off and went to work on some of the trees, just basic colors, some yellow there and some orange, a touch of red. The water running a little at times, pulling the color down the paper. Sometimes Virgil would wipe it away with the paper towel, other times he would ignore it, letting it mingle with some of the other colors as he added to the scene. He finished with some soft gold and browns to the wheat fields, some darker colors were the shadows were sitting, waiting to take over the brightness of the land before him.

It was quick work, he wasn’t going into details with the paints, just base colors. In all, it only took him about ten minutes to turn the black and white drawing into a soft blurry field of color. He used the rest of the paper towel to clean up the water and wipe down his brush, putting the paints away. He had to let the background dry a bit before he could start in with the pastels. He propped the notebook on his bag and leaned back on his hands, watching the light as it shifted across the dry stalks of the field and played with the colors of the leaves.

There was a sudden squeal not far off and he jerked, turning toward the sound. Two blond heads were running from the direction of the house along the outer edge of the field—Gordon and Alan. They both had their arms out to their sides, like they were flying, though Virgil knew full well Gordon was underwater while Alan was above him in the air. He smiled a little to himself and watched their path as they passed by him, unaware of his existence and continued on.

Virgil frowned a little. They were heading to the old silo, not a place they were generally allowed to be. He watched them, but when they reached the old structure they just ran around it a few times and then were off into the trees.

Virgil sighed and looked over at this sketch book. The paint had dried quickly in the cool air and he held his hand up against it, it was mostly dry so he decided to pick it up again and keep working. He pulled his pastels out again and looked over the colors, glancing up at the trees as he did. Hesitantly he grabbed a bright yellow and went to work. It would take him a while to get the details he wanted. First he would highlight some of the colors already there and use his fingers to smudge the colors together to get just the right effect that the trees were doing.

He used one of the darker colors to outline some of the tops of the trees, just to see if it was the right effect he was going for. He tilted his head, scratched his nose—leaving a smudge of dark umber along the bridge, and reached for the red.

He continued to work, his full concentration on the picture before him. In the back of his mind he recognized the sounds of his brothers back in his hearing range laughing and yelling at each other but paid no mind to them, he was just starting to get the colors where he wanted them. He picked up an orange and made a few strokes, used his ring finger—he was starting to run out of clean fingers—to blend it into the trees just on the other side of the silo.

Virgil snapped his head up. A sound, it wasn’t his brothers, but it came from their direction. It was silent now, but only for a moment.

“Gordon!” It was Alan, his voice high and panicked.

Virgil jumped from his spot, his sketch book flipping flat on its newly colored page. He sprinted toward the silo, his mind only on the fear he could hear in his littlest brother’s voice.

“Alan? Where’s your bother?” He was there in seconds, Alan was standing at the base of the silo looking up at it.

Tears were running down his face as he sniffed and pointed up. “He went up.”

“Damn!” Virgil knew his grandmother would have cuffed his ear if she had heard him, but he didn’t have a moment to spare for the thought. He grabbed the rung of the ladder and hoisted himself up—dots of color from his fingers left in his wake on the cold gray metal.

He climbed as fast as he could to the top where he could see exactly what had happened. The roof that had been patched numerous times had fallen in. Gordon sat on top of the grain that was being stored in the silo and Virgil let out a sigh of relief—he had throught the silo empty. However, that relief did not last long as the scene fully unveiled itself. Gordon wasn’t sitting in the grain, he was half buried and sinking fast.

Virgil leaned over and called down to the scared six-year-old. “Alan! Get Dad! Go!”

Alan hesitated for a moment, but then took off back toward the house.

Virgil turned his attention back to the eight-year-old before him. He was quiet, but his eyes were open. Shock more than likely. “Gordon, can you reach me?” Virgil stretched his arm out as far as he could, but it wasn’t far enough to reach his frightened little brother. He looked around, searched for something he could use to extend his reach. There was nothing up there though. Instead he hoisted himself over the edge of the silo, the metal whined as more of the roof threatened to come down. He clung to the ladder on the inside of the structure and reached out again.

Gordon was in to his waist now, his eyes wide, he was sobbing. “It’s going to be okay, Gordo. You just got to get my hand.” Virgil had one foot on the surface of the grain now, it was holding but he wasn’t about to risk letting go of the side and they both be engulfed.

The roof above them moaned again, and Virgil glanced a look up. The roof supports were leaning dangerously, they had to get out of there before it collapsed. Virgil forced his foot down between the rung and the inside of the silo and reached out with both hands now. He was able to grasp Gordon’s hand and pulled him towards him a little. It was tough though, the grain was holding onto him tight and Virgil didn’t want to injure him.

He cursed again, how long was it going to take his father to get there? He had Gordon’s torso up to him, his arms wrapped around his chest, but his legs were still knee deep. There was another groan and Virgil looked up just in time to see the rest of the roof collapse on top of them.

 

Virgil knew nothing for a very long time. The first thing he became aware of was his breathing. That was a good thing, breathing was good. The second thing he became aware of was a sharp pain in his head. That was not so good. He could feel the groan as it radiated through his chest and out with a sigh.

“Virgil?”

He knew that voice, it was his father’s.

“Mother, I think he’s waking up.”

“I’ll go get the doctor.”

“Virgil, can you hear me?”

Virgil wanted to reply, but the pain in his head was keeping all thoughts away. He moaned again and tightened his eyes, but that made it worse. The pain seemed to originate from his eyes—no, not his eyes, but somewhere close.

He tried to reach up to his head, but something was stopping his hand, his blankets. It took him a moment to find the opening, but once his hand was free he was reaching up to his face. There was something on it, and he tried to pull at it, to pull it away.

“No, son. You need to leave that.” His father took his hand gently and laid it down, but didn’t let go. “You hit your head pretty hard. Almost poked your eye out.”

“Dad?” He had finally found his voice, but he still wasn’t sure what was going on. Where was he? Why did his head hurt?

“Shh. You’re going to be okay.”

“Jeff? You’re mother said—ah, he is moving a little isn’t he?”

His father let go of his hand, and Virgil started to panic a little, but the hand was back again and he could feel his father sitting down next to his legs.

“Virgil, can you hear me?”

Virgil tried to frown, but that hurt as well. Instead he nodded. “Yeah, my head hurts.”

“I imagine so. Can you open your eyes?”

“They hurt.”

“Still, I’d like to see you try.”

Virgil really didn’t want to, but his father squeezed his leg and that was enough to get Virgil to at least try. They felt like they were stuck closed. He tried to open them, but they just wouldn’t open. He tried again, and finally one popped open, but the light was bright and he closed it again.

“That’s a good start. Keep trying though.”

Virgil felt a pat on his shoulder and he sighed and tried to open the other one. With another crusty pop it opened as well. He blinked furiously as the light in the room seemed much to bright.

“That’s right, let your eyes adjust.”

His blinking slowed, but his vision was still a little blurry.

“Alright, I’m going to shine a light in your eyes alright. It may hurt, but please bare with it.”

Virgil nodded as the blurry figure closest to him reached forward, pried his eye open farther, and flashed a really bright light into it. Virgil jerked at it and clenched his eyes closed again, another moan from the pain escaping.

“Let’s try that again. You’ve got to let me see your eyes, Virgil.”

Virgil took a deep breath and nodded, opening his eyes a little. Once again the blurry figure opened his eye wide and flashed the light across it. Then the reached over and did the other one.

“They’re still not dilating much on their own. It may take some time, but we need to keep an eye on it.”

The figure had moved, but Virgil couldn’t tell if it was toward him or away.

“Try to keep him awake for the rest of the night and bring him in to the office in the morning. If it’s still the same we’ll need to put him in the hospital for observation.”

“Thanks, Carl. Thanks for coming out like this.”

“No problem, Jeff.”

“I warned Tom that silo was a danger.” His father sighed and he could see the blurry figure he assumed to be him shake his head. “Doesn’t matter. Gordon knew better than to play around that thing. God, it was good luck Virgil was out there was well.”

Memory flooded into Virgil’s mind. The silo, the painting, the warm fall day, Alan’s scream, and Gordon sinking into the grain. “Gordon!”

“Whoa. Settle down.” Someone had his shoulders and was pushing him back into the bed. “Gordon is fine. He’s asleep right now with your brothers in my bed.”

“The grain, what happened?”

“It’s alright. Everyone is fine. You almost had Gordon free when the roof collapsed. I was on my way to the silo, saw it happen. Didn’t think I could run any faster but I did. Scott couldn’t even catch up to me.”

Virgil wondered if his father was smiling, but he was still a large blob right now. He blinked some more and even reached up and wiped his eyes.

“You may not be able to see clearly for a while.” The doctor and his father seemed to have switched places, Virgil wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened.

“I got to the top of that silo and started pitching pieces off the side, found you curled up with Gordon next to you. One of the roof beams got you smack in the face. You’ve got a thick head through, only left one mark on you.”

Virgil reached up to his face again. It was a bandage that half covered the vision in his left eye. There was a rough spot in the middle of it next to his eyebrow. He pushed on it taking in the pain it induced.

“Gordon’s okay though?”

“He’s fine. A little shaken, but fine.”

Virgil nodded and looked down at his hands. They too were nothing but blobs of color, though, there were bits of red and orange, brown and yellow.

“My drawing.” It wasn’t really that important, but he wanted to know.

“Don’t worry, John collected it all. It’s here if you want to see.”

“No, that’s fine.”

“How about I get you something to eat while I show the doctor out. Then I can read you one of your favorite stories.”

Virgil nodded and watched as the two forms left the room, their outlines a little more defined than they were at first.

 

They went to the doctor’s the next day as instructed. Virgil was able to see much better this time, though his vision was still slightly off. The doctor assured him that it would either clear up or he would need glasses, either way it was easily fixable. Virgil was also really tired, mostly because his father wouldn’t let him go to sleep—afraid he wouldn’t wake up. However, the doctor assured them that the danger had passed and Virgil was due a nice long nap.

They made their way back into the house, Virgil slow and sleepy, but the whole family was waiting on them. Gordon would have knocked him down had his father not blocked him. Virgil finished closing the gap between them and took his brother in a hug.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I’m sorry, Virgil. I’m sorry!”

“It’s alright.” Virgil just murmured in his hair and squeezed him tightly. They stayed like that for a moment before Gordon pulled himself away.

“I’m sorry about your picture too.”

“My picture?”

“Yeah, it got ruined.”

“How badly?”

Gordon didn’t respond but let go of Virgil and darted upstairs. A moment later he was back with Virgil’s sketchbook in his hand.

Virgil took the sketch book and flipped it open to the page he had been working on. Somehow the pastel he had been working with had ended up under the sketch book and Virgil had stepped on it, his footprint still clear on the back of the previous page. Some of the colors had been smudged and everything had taken on a bit of a blurry effect, much like how Virgil had felt the past ten hours.

“Ah, it’s not that bad. Wasn’t the final version anyways.”

“Can I have it?” Gordon was looking up at him, tears still in his eyes.

“It’s not even done—not sure I even feel like finishing it anymore.”

“Please, can I have it?”

Virgil just sighed and shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He pulled the picture out of the sketchbook, the bottom corner tearing off leaving only three of the corners intact. “There you go.”

Gordon took the picture and ran back upstairs with it.

“Come on, Virgil. You need some sleep.”

Virgil didn’t argue, but allowed his father to lead him upstairs and to his own bed.

 

Virgil was standing in the disaster area that was Gordon’s room. It was the middle of the night and he had been sent to wake the kid up for a rescue that needed Thunderbird 4. However Virgil had stopped dead in the middle of the room. Gordon was still sacked out on his bed, his covers half on the floor with the rest of his belongings. Virgil, however, was looking at something else. On the wall, carefully framed was an old picture. A late fall day, the sky blue, the trees a variety of colors. One corner was ripped away and a dark smudge was planted oddly in the middle of the scene.

Virgil took a deep breath and rubbed his face. He took the remaining steps over to Gordon’s bed and leaned over, shaking the young man awake. “Come on Gordon. You’re needed. Some kayakers decided to go exploring some caves at low tide and are now stuck. Need to go get them before they run out of air.”

Gordon had grumbled a little at first, but popped up once Virgil had explained the situation. “Good grief. How may times do people have to do that? What is this, the third time this month?”

“First time this month, but yeah, happened twice last month.”

“Jeez, when will they learn?” Gordon had grabbed his shirt and was out the door in no time.

Virgil stayed behind, his gaze still on the picture on the wall. He had never forgotten about what had happened—his hand absently going up to touch the scar by his eyebrow, but he had forgotten about the picture. He had never gone back out to that field after that. He had picked a different scene to paint, but had never been quite satisfied with it.

“Hey, Virgil, you coming? I can’t quite leave without you, you know.” Gordon was standing in the doorway of his room, his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He turned and ruffled Gordon’s hair as he left the room. No, he would never forget that day, it was his first rescue after all.


End file.
